Prelude to a Curse
by stress
Summary: [companion piece to Diabo] When Diana Mason asked the ghost of Jack Kelly just how he died, the answer was simple: the Devil, himself, gave him poison and he drank it. But, was there more to it? Well, of course. Leave it to Jack to forget the rest.
1. It begins in a bar

Author's Note: _Well, I couldn't resist. Really, I couldn't. With the one year anniversary of Diabo's first chapter being posted, I decided that it called for some kind of celebration. I wasn't sure at first what I wanted to do, but then I decided that maybe I would write something to commemorate its birthday. And, given that the topic of this short story was touched upon but I wasn't going to explain it further in the text, I figured that it was a perfect thing to expand outside of the main fic. It will be four chapters long – here's the first one._

_(and, of course, if someone would – oh, I don't know – like to do something in celebration of Diabo's birthday, that would just be swell… )_

Disclaimer: _I do not own, nor stake any claim, to any of the original newsboy characters – they are the property of Disney. The characters Stress belongs to me. This short is part of the _a Maldição de Diabo _universe._

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Prelude to a Curse

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**August 3, 1900**

Jack Kelly's head was throbbing. Not that that was unexpected, really. Ever since he hit the darkest and seediest pub down on the south end of the Tenderloin, he had been downing glass after glass of some unknown dark, thick liquid. It wasn't sarsaparilla – the drink he had started the evening off ordering – but it was doing exactly what this trek into the wickedest part of Manhattan was meant to do: dull the pain.

Not the physical pain, of course; the amount of liquor he had surely ingested was bringing about the worst headache he had seen in all of his eighteen years. No… he had chanced entering a dive such as this in the hopes that he could just _forget_.

There were beads of sweat popping out along his furrowed brow. With a halfhearted swipe at the slick moisture, he brushed the sweat away before it had the chance to drip down and sting his already bloodshot eyes. Groaning, he then raised his hand and pushed his shaggy, sandy hair back. His face was nearly drowning inside his umpteenth glass; the front locks kept falling forward, irritating him.

In a way, the irritation – even the damn pounding – was better than the grief. _Far better._

He lifted his head, gently so as not to agitate the rhythmic pounding, and lazily reached for his drink. He lifted it to his mouth and tilted it back, only to find that the sip that followed was nowhere near the mouthful he had been hoping for.

Placing it back down on the sticky surface of the bar, he slid his brown eyes over. He made out the balding fat bartender down at the end, carefully wiping out the inside of a pewter tankard with a damp rag. Crooking his finger, Jack motioned for him to join him at his end of the bar.

The man caught Jack's eye and raised one of his rather bushy eyebrows. Nevertheless, he placed the semi-clean tankard down and slung his rag over his shoulder. He waddled over to where Jack was currently hunched over his empty glass. "Another one, lad?" His rich brogue was evident and Jack could not but help smile sadly again, just as he had done every other time the bartender spoke. The Irish accent was just too familiar and the pain was still too real; he had not had enough to drink yet.

Jack rapped his knuckles against the wooden top, ignoring the dirt that coated his fingers when he lifted his hand up. "Keep 'em coming," he replied, his voice thick and only slightly slurred.

A look of faint concern flittered across the man's face. Torn between retaining Jack's business and giving the boy enough to drink that he eventually killed himself or refusing the boy and having Tiny toss him out onto the street, he was not sure what was the better of two evils. On the one hand, he appreciated the boy's business but, really, was it worth it to deal with a corpse later on in the evening?

When the bartender did not automatically reach for the green glass bottle, Jack thought he might understand what was going on. Grumbling under his breath, he reached into his trouser pockets and pulled out a handful of coins: coppers, nickels, and even a Barber quarter. He slammed them down on the bar. "How much can that get me?"

Any qualms that the bartender might have had prior to that disappeared as soon as the coinage was splayed out before him. With a greedy smile, he made a great production of tallying up the money that Jack had offered before hurriedly scooping it up and moving it out of the reach of any of the patrons sitting at the bar. When he returned, he had the green bottle back in hand. "Taking in account how much of me special brew you've had, I figure that about covers your tab. But you do get one more drink." He placed the mouth of the bottle against Jack's empty glass and started to pour.

Jack lifted his head so that he could watch the slow, sludge-like flow of the drink. The bartender could see how far gone the boy already was and, when that thick, dark liquid only halfway filled the glass, he pulled the bottle away. "There you are."

He waited a moment to see if the boy was sober enough to argue that he had been gypped. Jack did not say anything – he was too busy taking a swig from his glass – so he moved away. The boy would thank him in the morning; too much of that stuff was enough to give even the most hardened of drinkers a painful hangover.

Jack smacked his lips together, his glass still in hand. For a moment, Stress's face vividly flashed before his eyes, cutting through the haze of his stupor. He could just imagine what she would say to him if she could see him now. Hiding away in some dank, derelict tavern, getting piss drunk so that he would not have to deal with the truth of the date.

_August third. One whole year, already. Shit. I just… I just can't believe it. One year… I need more… more… more whatever the hell this mug keeps giving me._

Taking another mouthful of his drink, he let it dribble down his throat slowly. It was a sharp taste and he could almost feel it burning his tongue but he refused to swallow it entirely. It was strange, and it was painful, but it reminded Jack that he was alive.

She wasn't, though. And, if she was, she would have smacked him upside the head for the cowardly way he was acting.

Tears were welling in his eyes but, whether they were from the strong liquor, the upset that was continually gnawing at him or shame at the way he was hiding, he was not sure. He swallowed, ignoring the growing lump in his throat, before wiping roughly at his eyes.

The warm moisture – he refused to think of the dampness as tears for real men, regardless, do not cry – caused the near permanent ink stains on his hands, remnants of a childhood selling newspapers on a street corner, to smear messily. He snorted at his own weakness before forcefully dropping his hand.

It took a few seconds for his dulled senses to register the fact that his hand fell rather hard against the hard, wooden countertop. It smarted and, when the rest of his body knew that his hand was in pain, he winced, a curse word muttered before he could stop himself.

He stood up from his barstool, shaking his hand fervently in an attempt to dispel the throbbing that had transferred from his head to his hand. Continuing to curse under his breath, he glared at the offending counter top. Maybe it was all the liquor he had had, but it was almost as if the inanimate wooden structure was smirking at him. He just glared back.

Nothing seemed to be going right for Jack. First he had to deal with the fact that it had been an entire year since Stress Rhian's unexplained slaying. Then he had to endure David's insistent comments that, sooner or later, the truth would be revealed and they would finally understand who killed the girl and why – the Mouth's voice had gotten pretty preachy after awhile, which explained why, perhaps, Jack had chosen a night alone in the grittiest bar in the Tenderloin over spending another moment in David Jacobs' company.

And now this. An evening of drink – two days worth of earnings spent – and he was worse off now than when he began. Maybe it would have been better, as Kloppman had kindly suggested, staying in his bunk, with his thin blanket pulled over his head.

The room was beginning to spin just then and his hand, the hand that was still twinging, shot out to steady him. For one brief second, Jack's head cleared and his eyes widened. The moment passed before he knew it and his stomach decided it was high time for a revolt. His shoulders jerked, his knees buckled and his stomach heaved.

Now, Jack did not drink very often – his visits to the pub surely increased following his girl's murder, but not by much; however, whenever he did, he was quite good at holding his liquor. But this time… it was close. He was able to keep the contents of his stomach down but only just.

Burping silently, his nose wrinkling at the rancid smell of regurgitated booze, Jack steadied himself a second time. He blinked and lifted his head up. Not a one of his fellow pub-goers had even noticed his spell and, for that, he was grateful. This was not the sort of place that he wanted to get sick in.

He took a tentative step forward. The ground seemed much firmer – or, perhaps, his knees weren't so wobbly – so he took another one. He rubbed his hand across his face, glad that the wave of nausea had let him be.

Taking that as a sign that his night was coming to a close, Jack decided that it was time to begin the mile and a half walk back to the lodging house on Duane Street. Earlier that night, it had seemed like such a brilliant idea to head into the Tenderloin; the red-light's ill reputation coupled with the distance from the lower east side meant little chance that he would be disturbed. But now… he was beginning to think that it wasn't that great of an idea, after all.


	2. And continues underneath the lamppost

Author's Note: _I didn't think that I would be updating this so soon but, when I thought about this, I figured (if I kept each chapter at, roughly, the same length) it would be longer than three chapters – I'm aiming at four, instead. So, since I could do a bit more insight on Jack's character, I decided to. And next chapter will have the big face-off ;)_

Disclaimer: _I do not own, nor stake any claim, to any of the original newsboy characters – they are the property of Disney. The characters Stress belongs to me. This short story is part of the _a Maldição de Diabo _universe._

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Prelude to a Curse

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It was not an uncommon occurrence, on the lower east side, to see a drunkard amble his way down the filthy Manhattan streets. Jack was a tad younger, and a bit more coherent, than most of the bums who existed on a diet of whiskey and gin but, from his uneven gait, it would be difficult to tell that he did not, usually, get _this _drunk.

It was raining out, a late summer sprinkle that, for the moment, rid the City of its foul odor. The moisture that continually, though not forcefully, landed on his hair – he was too out of it to even place his second-hand cowboy hat atop his head – kept him conscious. He was vaguely aware of the weather and just glad that it was not a still, clear night; it had been entirely still and eerily quiet the night she died and he did not want (or need) another reminder.

With one hand in his pocket, and the other outstretched in an attempt to keep him from losing his balance, Jack continued to stumble in the direction of the newsboy lodging house on Duane Street. It was a good thing that he had a knack for direction – not to mention the fact that his feet had tread the path to the house for so many years that he could find his way back blindfolded – or his inebriated state might have led him to head uptown instead. His knees were still somewhat wobbly but, seeing as he still had control of most of his senses, Jack figured that things could be worse.

_Then again_, he thought to himself, just as he arrived at the back entrance to the lodging house, _how could they really? It's been a whole year since the night that Stress was killed and, in all that time, no one's come forward to tell me what happened. How the hell could a girl get knifed on the street and _no one _saw it?_

He shook his head, not caring that the motion made his stomach lurch in protest, as he paused outside the back door. He was a few feet away, standing beside the lamppost that illuminated the usual dirt road. He ran his hand over his face, wiping it clear of the sticky, warm raindrops that clung to his skin; he pushed his damp hair back out of his face before reaching his hand out and grabbing hold of the lamppost.

It was a sturdy pole and, though the metal was slick with rain, his firm hold seemed to ground the young man. This was not the first time that he stood, thinking, while basking in the light that the lamp let off. It was one of his favorite spots to think. Very few of the other boys would leave the hustle and bustle of the bunks just to sit outside in the quiet, after all; most of them just entered in through the back, rarely giving him a second look – in fact, it was, perhaps, Kloppman and the Jacobs family (maybe Race, too, if he was in the mood to be helpful rather than sarcastic) alone who even tried to talk to him when he was in one of his moods.

Jack had spent a lot of the past year, sitting outside, resting underneath the lamppost. For him, it had all started there. Whenever he felt as if things were rough – a mixture of loss (first his mother, then his girl), anger, plus the understanding that he was quickly approaching adulthood and could not spend further time pining after a ghost – he would just stand in the back and… well, brood.

It was the place he had gone to wait that fateful night. Though bloody and gasping in pain, she had gone to the Duane Street lodging house after her attack; the boys' house had been closer, he could only assume, than the girls' home over in Bottle Alley, roughly five streets over. She had needed help and Kloppman, a veteran of the War, was no stranger to bandaging the worst of injuries. Besides, he worked as a supervisor to a home full of boys – he was used to the scrapes and bruises the boys usually brought home with them.

Even in his drunken haze, Jack could remember the face that Alfred Kloppman had made upon looking at the young girl's – she was no more than seventeen – injuries. His watery eyes had gone wide behind his glasses and his mouth had dropped open in surprise at her state. The expression did not last; Kloppman had been able to regain control of his features almost immediately, ushering the boy out of the bunkroom. The old man knew the girl's fate before the rest of them did.

Be it his imagination or his conscience, just then, her voice seemed to carry on the wind: _Scratch…it's just a scratch… _He ran his hand over his face again, trying to block out the phantom whispers. Lies, all of it. Scratches do not kill, he knew, and the gash that was in her side was no scratch.

Jack wiped his slick hand on the front of his grey vest. Despite the drizzle – which was doing him the slight favor of keeping him awake rather than passed out in some side alleyway – he wanted nothing more at that moment than to take out a cigarette and have a good smoke. When his hand was dry enough, he reached into the inside pocket of his wet vest and pulled out a damp, crinkled hand rolled smoke.

He stuck it in his mouth, lowering his head so that the faint rain did not entice any further tobacco shag to fall from the paper. He patted down his trouser pockets and felt, in the right pocket, the distinctive shape of a match box. It took him a few tries to actually fit his hand within the pocket and he cursed under his breath in frustration. It seemed, even though it had been close to an hour since he left that pub, that the liquor was still affecting him more than he would like to admit.

Shielding the little box from the rain with his left hand, he attempted to use his right to open the match box and draw out a match. He fumbled with it, tilting it slightly – with the result being that all but a few of the matches fell out of the box, landing in the freshly made mud. "What the fuck?" he mumbled around his cigarette, closing his brown eyes for a second. He sighed and, quickly, before the rain ruined the remaining matches, he reached in the box and took one out.

He struck the match against the side of the box, wrinkling his noise at the pungent smell – made all the worse by the liquor – and brought it to the end of his cigarette. It lit up without much hesitation and he took a deep breath, shaking the match out as he did so. In one quick motion, Jack tossed the spent match, closed the match box and went to put the little box back in his pocket. The motion did not end as smooth as it began, the box falling to the ground, joining the other matches.

The boy didn't even realize it. Letting the nicotine in and holding the smoke within his lungs for a beat before lazily letting it out through his noise, Jack was preoccupied with the memories of that night.

The liquor had not done the job he had meant for it to do. Whereas he had gone to the Tenderloin with the intent to forget, all he was doing was remembering. And the continued rhythmic pounding in his head was doing nothing to make this any better. He took another drag off of his cigarette, flicking the ashes absently.

The image of the fair skinned, curly-haired girl was flashing before his eyes. It was so unlike the few photographs he had gathered during their short time together. This version of Stress was not mischievous or inquisitive, her green eyes sparkling with life; it was, instead, of a calm specter, resigned to an existence of unanswered questions. He had been haunted by that image for three hundred and sixty-five days exactly now – with an entire year behind him, he had still yet to figure out what _exactly _happened.

She had been stabbed in the side with a sharp knife on her way to Bottle Alley. She had stumbled back to Duane Street, and, banging on the door, interrupted the on-going poker game he had with Racetrack and Kid Blink. She had needed help; Kloppman had attempted to supply. And then she had died… that was all he knew. What he wouldn't do (or hadn't done already) to know more about that night.

Sometimes Jack wondered what hurt more – that she was dead and gone, or that he had no understanding of her senseless end. There were rumors, of course. Perhaps it was one of the local gangs, or any of the rival newsies from a far off territory. Maybe it was a goon, looking to pick a fight or some bum who preyed on little girls. That last one made Jack ill every time he thought about it.

But, rumors were rumors and, with the next big news, she was forgotten. Orphans on the street died all the time. Unless they left someone behind, their death was not missed and very rarely explained. She was a street rat; there was no justice for her. Only a handful mourned her passing, and only he obsessed over knowing the facts.

She had been buried in a nameless grave, with nothing more than a simple wooden cross as a marker. Jack visited it when he got the chance, always promising that, one day, he would return with the truth but, now that a year had passed, he was less convinced than ever that he would. And that made him feel like a complete failure.

Not only had he been unable to protect the girl, or save her – he couldn't even let her rest in peace, knowing that her murderer paid for their crimes. What good was he, anyhow?

Jack wiped at the back of his neck, shaking off the excess rain that was welling on his skin. He knew that he should have stopped by her gravesite to pay his respects that afternoon but he did not. He had purposely chosen to hide away in a local pub and, now that night had fallen and his stomach kept turning (due to guilt and not eating anything), he regretted his actions. That wasn't much of a surprise, though; Jack regretted quite a lot of what he did.

He took one final drag off of the cigarette, bringing the fiery ends close to his fingertips. When he was done, he let the last embers fall. There was a sizzle as the rain – falling harder than it had earlier, as if the Heavens above were sharing in his sorrow – landed on the cigarette's ends, extinguishing them at once.

As he exhaled slowly, the wispy smoke disappearing into the night, he approached the back door of the lodging house. He peered inside without even opening the door. If he squinted against the candlelight, he could see a crew of lodgers sitting on the steps, playing a game of dice. There was a sliver of Kloppman visible; the elderly supervisor was at his usual post, waiting for the boys to pay their fare for the evening.

He drew back from the doorway. All of a sudden, Jack did not want to go inside. He did not want to face his friends nor did he want to admit to Kloppman that the old man had been right. He should have stayed in but he did not. Now… he just wanted to continue sulking.

Though it was probably not the best of ideas, considering that he was still drunk and feeling all the more sorry for himself with every passing moment, Jack Kelly decided that it would be best right then if he went to the roof. It was solitary and, if he positioned himself right, he could hide from the rain – and, perhaps, hide from his grief.

And, without another thought, he headed over to the fire escape and began to climb.


	3. Before leading up to the roof

Author's Note: _And here is the big confrontation. It's very simple – because going beyond that crosses the bounds of trying to convince the reader that this might actually happen. However, this is not the end. There's one more chapter to come that, hopefully, will explain something that I've been hesitant to explain over Diabo before. But for now… Enjoy!_

Disclaimer: _I do not own, nor stake any claim, to any of the original newsboy characters – they are the property of Disney. The characters Stress belongs to me. This short is part of the _a Maldição de Diabo _universe._

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Prelude to a Curse

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He only stumbled once. The falling rain slicked the rail of the fire escape and a careless hand lost its grip. Jack's hand slid down, nearly twisting his torso, as he struggled to retain his balance. There was a sharp pain that shot up his arm and his eyes widened. His left knee banged into the next iron stair; he groaned, placing all of his weight on that knee as he retook his hold.

Panting, he continued on his ascent, taking great care not to do that again. His almost-fall was enough to sober him up and, as he found himself only a few steps away from the rooftop, Jack wondered what the hell he was doing. Was it really a smart thing to do, climbing up a slippery fire escape to sit on top of the roof, during the rain no less, just so he wouldn't have to face anyone?

Snorting at his own stupidity, he looked over the side of the railing; he was about four stories high at that point. Now, Jack Kelly never had a problem with heights. He could walk across the Brooklyn Bridge, hang over the side, yelling in excitement, and not even bat an eye. But just then… perhaps it was a mixture of the liquor and that sense of detachment that had settled over him early in the evening, but the distance between his head and the ground seemed never-ending.

He felt light-headed and, again, his stomach lurched. Wrapping his left arm around his abdomen, Jack tore his head away from the drop. He swallowed and, slowly, finished his climb.

It was getting chilly – at least, that's what he told himself when his frame began to shiver slightly and shake. He shook his head, soaked strands of sandy hair slapping his forehead with each motion. Jerking his head back, sending the hair out of his line of vision, he lifted his arms, hugging his body for warmth.

The rain was falling all the harder as he shuffled his feet across the rooftop. There was a doorway positioned at the opposite end of the roof; he went straight in that direction. There was a small cove that covered the exit, and it was perfect for shelter from the rain. He kept his head bowed as he went, his eyes stinging from the drops that fell into them before.

Once Jack was tucked away, protected from the elements, he sighed and rubbed at his eyes. He allowed his thin body to shake, working off the moisture that he could feel dripping down his arms, his legs, his neck, and his back. It was quite an uncomfortable sensation and he longed for a towel or a rag or something to wipe away the water. But his pride kept his feet planted on the ground – he was not about to give in and go into the lodging house right now; he was no stranger to sleeping outdoors, after all. It would just be a littler damper than he was used to.

At least he was still alive. For now.

As soon as he was sure that he could peer out and not have to deal with water running into his eyes again, Jack let his hands fall to his side. He wanted another cigarette just then to calm his nerves but that was impossible. Not only had he left his box of matches in the mud, he was positive the rest of his supply would be too wet by now to even catch fire. He wrinkled his nose and, his back up against the door, slid down so that he was sitting on the floor of the roof.

His knees were bent and he wrapped his arms around them as he let his head fall forward. Thankfully, his headache had begun to subside; not only that, but his head did not seem so fuzzy anymore. Jack was bothered by that, though. The drunken feeling was quickly being replaced by a sense of dread, a sense of loneliness – given the choice, he preferred the intoxicated state.

The sound of the rain falling against the roof had a soothing effect on him and, for the first time in weeks, Jack felt a bit better about his predicament. The anniversary of her death had been weighing on his mind for weeks; now that the exact date had arrived, and would be gone in a few hours, the burden seemed to lessen.

"Francis."

He tensed at once, any sense of relaxation disappearing with those two syllables. It was unfamiliar voice that uttered the name but the name was known to the boy. "Excuse me?" he snapped, defensively, jerking his head up to meet whoever it was that seemed to follow him up the fire escape. Right then he was not preoccupied with how they found him; he just wanted to know how they knew that name.

"Francis Sullivan. I've been waiting for you."

A sarcastic retort died on his lips as he eyed the man standing before him. He was so very like any of the hoity-toity businessmen that he sold papers to in the morning, with his closely cropped dark hair, his hand-tailored clothes, his small, pointed goatee. His smile was wide, perhaps predatorily so, and Jack could see rows and rows of pearly white teeth; his complexion was fair, setting off a contrast to the darkness of his other features.

There was nothing to stand him apart from any of the Manhattan elite but that did not mean that he was usual. Quite the opposite really. Though he could not place his finger on what it was, this stranger's very presence was enough to set his nerves – as sluggish as they were just then – on end. Jack did not think it had anything to do with the fact that this man knew his birth name; it was something beyond that.

And, if all that was not strange enough, this man was dry. There seemed to be a protective barrier keeping raindrops away from his impeccable suit – almost as if the rain itself was frightened to draw too close to him. One stray drop veered off the course and landed on his shoulder; with an almost inaudible hiss, it evaporated into a small wisp of steam.

Slowly, as if being drawn upwards, Jack found himself on his feet. He had his hands outstretched before him, subconsciously warding this man off. The pale stranger had not moved from his place, standing in the center of the roof, but the boy was not taking any chances. "I ain't no Sullivan. The name's Kelly."

"Ah, yes. I imagine the name Sullivan holds too many memories for you," the stranger remarked, placing the tips of his abnormally long white fingers together, ironically forming a steeple as he cast a black eye over Jack.

"Yeah… wait a second," Jack said, angrily. He was annoyed at himself for starting to agree to something he had suggested. He formed one of his hands into a fist with his pointer finger extended. "Who the hell are you? Where do you get off, acting like you know me?"

"Oh, but I do, Francis. Pardon me," he said genially before Jack had the opportunity to protest, "Jack."

He nodded. "Yeah. That's right. Jack." He relaxed his hand, waving it palm up in a curious gesture. "What do you want? I didn't do nothing if you're saying that I did."

The man laughed. It was a surprisingly gentle sound that had such warmth attached to it that it drove any of the chill away from Jack's rain-soaked bones. "Of course not. I'm not here to accuse you of anything. I'm here to help you."

Jack allowed himself a laugh. It was nowhere as melodic as this man's; it was a patronizing laugh that did not last for more than two ha's. "You? A rich mug like you? Help me? What for?"

"You know the name of Sullivan and the feelings it stirs in you. I ask you, what does the name of Rhian do? A Jessa Rhian?"

There came a sudden clap of thunder. Jack jumped – but he was not sure if it was for the unexpected sound or the fact that this man knew Stress's name. "Who are you?"

The man bowed deeply, with a flourish of his hands. "I have many names but, for those of the simple persuasion, I am known as the Lord of Hell." When he was met with a blank look, he grinned evilly. "The Devil, perhaps?"

Jack snapped his fingers in recognition before shaking his head in amusement. As if he really believed that this strange man standing before him was the Devil. "Oh, yeah? Tell me another one."

"How about I tell you about Jessa, instead, Jack? It's been one year now, hasn't it? And yet her poor soul continues to rest in Purgatory." He shook his head sadly, feigning a compassion that it was quite obvious to detect as forgery. "Those with unfinished business can never cross over. As long as her murder goes unheeded, her soul will be lost. But I could help you save it."

If this man mentioned anything but Stress – _how the hell does he know her name, too? _– Jack would have laughed him off of the rooftop. Pride or not, it would be quite simple to open the door that was behind him, and slip back into the attic of the lodging house.

But, the truth was that he _did _mention the girl. Jack's undivided attention was on the man. He had no choice but to humor him. "How?"

"I have limited means in helping in such matters but, what I can do, is offer you… a gift. In an exchange for your squalid existence, I can give you one hundred years to search and discover what happened to your _beloved_," he explained, her lips sneering over the one word before the charming mask was slipped back over his indiscernible face. "If you are successful, both your souls will rest together in Paradise."

The idea of Paradise sounded pretty good to the boy but, growing up on the streets of Manhattan, he knew an unstated clause when he heard (or didn't hear) one. "Yeah? And what if I ain't successful?"

The man bowed his head, impressed that Jack had caught on; he surely had not expected as much from him. "Why, then you belong to me. But, really, do you plan on failing?"

"No but—"

"She needs you, Jack." Whether or not this man was the true Devil – and Jack was definitely leaning towards the latter – his words struck a chord with the boy. It was almost as if he knew every one of Jack's fears, and he knew how to twist them to make him feel complete pain.

His answer was nothing more than a whisper; the heavy rain drowned out his small voice. "I know."

"Then do we have a deal? One hundred years is a great deal of time."

His eyes, though definitely glazed over, were narrowed in distrust. When he spoke again, his voice had more of an edge to it. He was fighting back. "There's got to be more to it than that. If I buy this… and I ain't saying that I am… I don't get it. You got some special powers," he said, shaking his hands about in a wayward manner to indicate how unlikely that seemed to him, "and you can make me live for another hundred years in order to figure out who killed Stress… now, why would you do that for me?"

His answer was smooth. "Because I'm the Devil."

"Yeah, you said that before. And the Devil wants to help a lowly street rat like me?"

The man rubbed his fingers along his goatee, smiling charmingly – smiling _dangerously _– at Jack. His thin eyebrows were raised in amusement. "The Devil helps everyone that he can. I'm a good man, whatever you may believe. Not that you seem the sort to know much of my history."

Jack had to give him that point. The closest dealings he had to the Church were the nuns who offered him and the boys free bread and coffee in the morning. "And you'll help me?"

This was a another clap of thunder, louder than the first, followed by a strike of lightning that lit up the night sky. Jack blinked and, when he opened his eyes again, there was an unmarked flask held delicately in the man's hand. "Yes, Jack. It's quite simple, really. Drink this and agree to my terms. Then you'll get one hundred years." He tossed the flask up into the air. Jack watched it fly in a perfect arc before landing in the man's second hand. "Unless you're afraid."

Whether Jack Kelly was intoxicated or not, he was not about to stand for some man to insinuate that he was afraid of anything; he daringly accepted the flask that the man – _The Devil_, he snorted – held out. There was no cap on it, so he did not have to waste anytime fumbling with removing the lid. He was not sure if he believed what he told him but, the way he saw it, this was a win-win situation. Either he continued in on his hallucination until one of the boys found him passed out the next morning or, if this man was telling the truth, then he would have one hundred years – he snorted again – to help her out.

She needed him. He didn't need some loon calling themselves the Lord of Hell to know that.

Jack placed the flask to his lips. He glanced over the edge and saw that the man was staring at him intently from his place in the center of the roof. It did not occur to the boy that neither of them had moved but the flask was tightly being gripped by his hand – he was too busy staring transfixed at his eyes.

He was positive, absolutely positive, that the man's eyes had been dark – so dark that they resembled coal. But now… unless somehow his eyes were playing tricks on him, or the rain was interfering with his sight, he was seeing something entirely different. They were red. And not just red.

They were vivid red orbs that, Jack had the sickening feeling, should he stare into them long enough, he would see the swirling flames of Hell within their depths.

Jack shook his head. He must be drunker than he thought.

And, with that, he tipped the unmarked flask back and downed its contents.


	4. And ending with a whisper

Author's Note: _And here we go: the finale to this short story. Even though it was not very long at all (especially in comparison to the beast), it sure feels good to actually finish something. I hope that everyone who read this is satisfied in knowing a little bit more about what happened in the past. I might come out with more shorts like this, focusing on the relationship between Jack and the various Daite girls, but who knows. For now, though, this is done. Woot._

_I want to thank those who read and reviewed this: Rogue, Kez, Garen, ImaSupernaturalCSI, Saranne, perforated sphere and Lady Sorciere. Your comments and support were highly appreciated!_

Disclaimer: _I do not own, nor stake any claim, to any of the original newsboy characters – they are the property of Disney. The characters Stress belongs to me. This short is part of the _a Maldição de Diabo _universe._

--

Prelude to a Curse

--

Pain. Terrible, desperate pain far beyond anything he had ever known. He felt the liquid burn his throat before welling at the pit of his stomach but the sensation was quickly overwhelmed by the sudden flare of pain.

His every nerve on fire, this agony coursed through his body. Whatever it was that this stranger had offered him, it was infinitely worse than even the cheapest of bathtub gin. He coughed once, then a second time, before stopping the reflex. Not only was it intensifying the pain but, with the second cough, it disturbed him to see that there was blood mixed in his spittle.

Jack wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, ridding it of any drool that remained; his arm was heavy and, as soon as the action was done, it fell limply to his side.

It was not only his limbs that were growing heavy as much of him grew weak. The longer he stood there, unaware of the slowing rain dripping down on him, the harder a time his neck was having in supporting his head. He blinked a few times, trying to fight the pain.

He failed, of course. And, as hard as he tried to keep the effects of this sudden spell from the man – the Devil – that was standing before him, observing his motions, Jack could no longer stand on his feet. His legs buckled beneath his weight and he dropped to his knees; the flask, forgotten, fell from his fingers. "Wha… what did you do?" he demanded, though his voice was raspy and not as harsh as he wanted it to be.

"The terms, my boy." Though the face of his human form gave away nothing, there was pure malice and excitement exuding off of this man. "You agreed to them. Your life is mine. You belong to me."

"My life?" he spit out, clutching his stomach as it heaved and jerked around; in comparison to this pain, the nausea he felt before was euphoria. "What the hell does that mean?"

The Devil bowed his head slightly, his lip curling as he met Jack's questioning gaze. "I gave you poison. It should be taking its effect very soon and, then, you will be indebted to me. You will get your one hundred years… but not as a human."

He stopped for a second, relishing the moment. It was not as common in that day that he got to do his work personally; he had legions of lackeys, servants and soul collectors who did it for him. Sometimes, he felt, it worked best when he did it himself. "For one who prides themselves on being as cunning as you, Jack, it was such short sight to agree to a deal without first hearing the terms."

There was sweat dripping down the boy's forehead – thought it was indistinguishable from the rain – as Jack struggled to remain conscious. Strangely enough, hearing that he had just been poisoned did not bother him as much as knowing that this man was having a grand old time, watching him die.

He grunted, his vision turning dark. He did, however, ask one further question: "Who are you?"

The man's answer was accompanied by that same cocky, understood look. He was surprised that Jack used his final breath to ask the question but he did not show it. The boy was as used to hearing the truth almost as much as the Devil was in speaking it – meaning not at all. "Why, I'm the Devil, of course."

This time, as the pain was all consuming – it hit its peak as his heart gave one final seize before failing to pump again – and his eyes began to close, Jack believed him.

And then he was dead. Spread out on the rooftop of the very building he called home, rain mingling with sweat and, perhaps, even tears, Jack Kelly died.

--

He was not alone for long. "Imp, come forth." The smooth voice of the Devil had transformed into one of power, of strength, as he summoned one of Hell's creature to him. Despite the continued drizzle, he could hear the sounds of the beast's claws clacking on the rooftop as it scrambled on all fours towards its Master.

The _thing_ only reached up to the Devil's knees, though its head was bowed and its back hunched. Its flesh was a burgundy shade, with black bumps sticking out at the oddest of places. There were blood red stubs – the beginning of horns – growing out the top of its misshapen head, and a dark tongue lolling out as he threw himself at his Master's feet. "Master…" it said, its deep voice a mixture of grunts and hisses.

The Devil did not lower his gaze to eye the creature. His attention was only on the fallen body of Jack Kelly. "Tell me. Is he dead?"

There was another sound of scraping as the imp hurried awkwardly over to the body, its long claws skittering across the slick rooftop. It drew up to Jack's side tentatively, as if it was afraid to touch the human. But that's what he did – with one of its hands, he poked the boy's side. The touch did not last longer than a second; it yelped in pain and jumped away, returning to its place at the Devil's feet.

The Devil knew from the imp's reaction that the poison he had given to Jack had worked. The boy's body was dead but his spirit lived on.

He had not doubted that his power would work – it was more a matter of ensuring that the outcome was the one he desired. When dealing with a soul as delicate as that of Jack Kelly's – _Francis Sullivan's_ – it was prudent to verify that everything went according to plan.

The imp was curiously sucking on its finger, using its saliva to assuage the pain that the human's touch produced. The soul had only so recently fled – placed inside a sanctuary that the Devil provided him with – and the remnants of _good_ still resided in his form.

Stroking his goatee in a satisfied manner, the Devil proceeded to use his black magic to plant the suggestion in the old man's mind to come to the roof. Alfred Kloppman, a good man whose service in the vicious American Civil War still haunted his dreams, was another pawn in this extensive game; it was his time to assume his role.

He did not leave the roof yet, though. In order for the last player in this round of the game to take up their position on the board – with the Rhian girl and, now, Jack Kelly already in position – the Devil needed to be there to make silent suggestions and, of course, see that the result of those suggestions were granted; when Kloppman cried out that he wanted nothing more than to avenge the deaths of the two children, the curse of immortality would be immediately bestowed.

The dark stranger grinned a wicked grin as he remained in the center of the roof, waiting. It was such an evil scheme with slim odds of survival – a rousing game designed to entertain him. And, so far, he was incredibly entertained.

The imp, however, was confused. It removed its finger from its oversized maw and cautiously said, "Why Master?"

Not accustomed to any of the lesser creatures questioning his methods – only a handful of his demons had the privilege of questioning their Master without being disintegrated – the Devil was caught off guard. So off guard, in fact, that he actually answered the imp's question. "It's very simple. He's a half. The other girl was a tainted Whole. Very worthy souls."

"Half, Master? Whole?"

He should have known better than to explain something to such a simple creature as an imp but it was rare that he got to discuss the cleverer of his plans. "Half is exactly how it sounds. He was born of a good soul – a Whole soul – and an evil soul. His mother was good, his father bad. The man, Sullivan, killed his wife, releasing the good, strengthening the evil in his own soul. I did not get my hands on the Whole but I have the opportunity now to gather her son. And that girl he gave his existence for? She was a Whole but her lifestyle put streaks of black through her soul."

The Devil smiled again, pleased to know how simple a task it was for a good soul to go bad; with only one streak of black, he could stake a claim on the precious commodity. "Purgatory claimed her but, with this plan, I get the Whole and the Half. Those two will make a great addition to the warped souls I own."

The imp was quiet, trying to understand the explanation his Master had offered. All it knew was that it had once been Nothing – a simple soul comprised of nothing but evil – which was why his existence now was designed as nothing more than a lackey to the Master. If it thought back hard and tried to remember just what its life had been like before death, it remembered certain things - places and emotions -- vividly: the dark London streets, dead prostitutes, vice, sin, murder and the name of Jack. Death it knew; _Goodness_, though, was an entirely foreign concept to it.

Rather than ask another question, the creature remained silent. Somewhere, in the back of its small mind, it recognized how fortunate it was that the Devil humored it enough to explain their reasons for visiting this Manhattan building as it was.

The rain was beginning to let up but the Lord of Hell and his minion did not even notice it. The two of them were still standing, watching idly, as the door to the rooftop entrance opened slowly. An elderly man, wrinkled, with thin white hair and a pair of thick glasses covering his watery blue eyes, walked carefully through the threshold.

Alfred Kloppman's head was pounding. He could not understand the insane urge he had to climb the many flights of stairs to arrive at the roof of the building but he followed the inclination, regardless. The pain subsided somewhat as he opened the door and made his way out onto the roof.

At first, the old man did not see anything. It was dark on the roof and the minimal rain that was still falling made it difficult to spy anything. For a moment, he thought that there was a patch of space, right before him, where no rain was invading the area but he quickly removed his glasses and polished them on his white shirt.

Once he put his glasses back onto his nose, he glanced downward and saw Jack Kelly's empty body. There was a gasp, carried away on the wind, that, nevertheless, the Devil heard, followed by a whisper.

"Jack?"

The Devil grinned. The next hundred years would surely be entertaining.


End file.
